In a twist that has left seismologists, cynics and this correspondent momentarily slack-jawed, a living, breathing, thoroughly traumatised woman has been plucked from the debris of Venezuela’s latest geological temper tantrum. The heroes of the hour? A quartet of British search dogs, whose noses are apparently more attuned to the scent of survival than the entire Venezuelan government is to basic governance.
The lady, name withheld for reasons of dignity and medical shock, was discovered about 72 hours after the earth decided to rearrange Caracas’s skyline without consulting the planning department. She was wedged between a collapsed ceiling and the sort of despair that makes estate agents look cheerful. Enter the dogs: four-legged, floppy-eared, and driven by a work ethic that puts the average Westminster careerist to shame. They sniffed, they scratched, they barked out a message that said, “There’s a pulse down here, you bureaucratic plonkers.”
Let us pause to consider the sheer absurdity of the situation. Here is Venezuela, a nation with more oil than an over-lubricated engine, yet reduced to rubble by both tectonic fury and political incompetence. And arriving to save the day are dogs from a damp island that once ruled the waves but now mostly argues about Brexit. The Brits: we bring you stiff upper lips, questionable cuisine, and canines that can locate a survivor in a collapsed building faster than a politician can locate a way to avoid blame.
Rescue workers, humans of the less-furry variety, did the heavy lifting—literally—moved concrete and rebar with the sort of grit that makes you believe in the species despite all evidence to the contrary. But it was the dogs who found her. They were flown in from the UK because, obviously, Britain’s finest export is no longer sarcasm or gin (though we still do both well). They are part of the International Search and Rescue team, a global brigade of heroes whose only vice is an excessive love of roll-over commands.
The woman, when freed, is said to have whispered, “Gracias, perritos,” which roughly translates to “Thanks, little dogs.” One can only imagine the canine response: a wag of the tail and a thought along the lines of “Just doing our job, señora. Now if you don’t mind, we must go sniff some more rubble and possibly have a treat.”
This is, of course, the sort of news that restores a tiny portion of faith in humanity—or at least in its canine companions. But let us not ignore the broader picture. Venezuela’s infrastructure was already held together with the metaphorical equivalent of tape and prayers. The quake, magnitude 7.3, was simply the final insult. And what does the government do? They welcome foreign dogs to do their dirty work, because apparently the national animal is no longer the bird known as the Venezuelan troupial but the ostrich burying its head in the sand.
Nevertheless, a life was saved. A woman who could have been a statistic is instead a story. She will probably spend the next few months in a tent, eating humanitarian rations, and occasionally being licked by a grateful Labrador. And the dogs will return to the UK, no doubt to be given ceremonial biscuits and pats on the head, before being dispatched to another disaster zone where they will once again remind us that when the world falls apart, the best response is often four paws and a wet nose.
As for this journalist, I am going to pour myself a gin and tonic, raise a glass to the canines, and pray that the next time London needs saving, we send the dogs in first. They’re cheaper than the military and infinitely more effective.
